


New York Minute

by Dorothy Marley (dmarley)



Category: Law & Order, The Professionals
Genre: Backstory, Crossover, First Time, M/M/M, Multi, Pre-Canon, Threesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1998-11-23
Updated: 1998-11-23
Packaged: 2017-10-02 20:53:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dmarley/pseuds/Dorothy%20Marley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On a trip to New York, Bodie and Doyle become involved in the troubles of a young Mike Logan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	New York Minute

It wasn't supposed to be a vacation. Cowley had been quite clear on that.

"You are there for one purpose, and one purpose only," he'd said sternly, glaring at Bodie and Doyle over the cluttered expanse of his desk. "You are to deliver your packet to our man in Manhattan, and then you are to wait for the return parcel. And while you wait, you will consider yourselves on stand-by, is that clear?"

"Crystal, sir," Bodie had said with bright blandness, and Doyle, sitting sprawled over the next chair, had nodded, muttering a somewhat less cheerful assent. Cowley had spared him a dark look, but had said no more, satisfied that his point had been taken.

Now, however, the papers had been safely handed off to Robbins, and they'd been told, to their dismay, that it would be a at least a week before the return package was ready. Robbins had been apologetic, but unmoved by their protests, and he'd called their hand by phoning Cowley himself, and receiving explicit orders that they were to stay as planned if, and this was a quote, "it takes a week, or a month, or a damn year."

"I don't believe this," Doyle said, flinging himself down on one of the two beds in their cramped room. "I only packed for three or four days."

"What, worried you won't make the right fashion statement?" Bodie, unperturbed, sat down at the window table, tweaking the curtain aside to peer down the street. "Don't worry, sunshine. We'll pass the time."

"Yeah, sure."

Bodie sighed, martyr-like. "It's a big city," he pointed out. "Surely there's something to offer two lads from London." He let the curtain fall back, and came over to join Doyle on the bed, bouncing down beside him with a pert smile. "Look on the bright side," he said, reaching up to ruffle Doyle's curls. "We can be tourists. See the sights."

"Oh, you're cheering me right up, mate," Doyle told him, but the sour petulance was leaking from his voice, draining away, in spite of his attempts to hold onto the anger, by the soothing touch of Bodie's hands on his scalp. He leaned into it a little, despite himself, and Bodie obliged him, sliding both hands into the thick curls to massage his head, easing the tension.

"Come on," he said, and bent down to plant a soft kiss on his cheek. "All we've got to do is check in every day to see if Robbins is ready for us. After that, we're on our own." He kissed him again, his lips soft on Doyle's skin. "And we're on an expense account," he reminded, and felt more than saw Doyle's mouth spread into a grin. "Well, on a Cowley expense account," he amended, and felt the smile fade a bit, even as Doyle laughed against him.

"Still," Doyle said. "We can't very well stay here and eat room service for a week," he went on, although, at the moment, with Bodie's lips traveling unhurriedly over his body, dipping down to press electric warmth to his neck, his chin, his chest, it didn't seem like such a bad idea. "Be suspicious, that would."

"Mm-hm," Bodie agreed from somewhere in the vicinity of Doyle's left nipple. "We're visitors," he said, mouthing the half-open shirt aside, nibbling delicately underneath until his lips found a soft, smooth-skinned nipple. He licked it, eliciting a gasp, and continued, "from Merrie Auld England. Seeing the sights." Another soft lick, down to where the shirt was still fastened. "We can go to the Statue of Liberty, tour the park, walk down Wall Street . . ."

"Mmmm," Doyle affirmed, agreeing more to the direction that Bodie's heated kisses were taking down his body, his mind only hazily processing what he'd actually been saying. Finally, though, the words soaked through the thick daze of lust, and he sat up, pushing Bodie's head from his stomach. "Hey! We're not playing at bloody tourists for a week, and that's final."

For a moment, Bodie actually looked hurt. "Well," he said reluctantly, "if you feel that strongly about it . . ." He gave a martyred sigh, and leaned forward again, pressing his mouth to the warm skin of Ray's belly. "Then I guess we'll just have to find something else to do . . ."

\-----

For the next couple of days, it wasn't so bad. They didn't, as Bodie had threatened, hit the tourist circuit, but they found quite enough to do exploring the boundaries of Manhattan. They talked themselves into visiting a few of the museums, but mostly they found that it was enough to walk through the streets, stopping to look at whatever caught their fancy, and thus they slowly browsed their way through the districts.

Their third day, they started further afield, and as the dinner hour approached Bodie insisted that they take the rented car and drive down to the Lower East Side, where, he claimed, an old friend of his owned a pub.

"You never mentioned him before," Doyle said, surprised. "We've been here nearly two days already, and this is the first I've heard of it."

"Couldn't remember where he was, could I?" Bodie said blithely. "And I finally got round to looking the place up in the phone book this morning. Mulligan's."

"Oh, well, there can't be more than one of those," Doyle said sarcastically.

"I remembered part of the address," Bodie said patiently, "and it's in the right part of town."

"Like you'd know."

Bodie glared briefly. "I can read a map," he said indignantly. The next second, though, he'd recovered his good humor. "Anyway, even if it's not Ted's place, we can still have a drink, eh?"

Doyle could hardly argue with that.

\-----

The pub was on the corner of two side streets, both of which were lined with tenements, the drab buildings jammed up against each other like bricks in a wall. There were a few people around, sitting on stoops and walking along the sidewalk, and Doyle was struck, suddenly, by a sense of eerie familiarity. They might be thousands of miles away from London, but Doyle was suddenly sure that he knew this neighborhood as if it were his own. The same crowded, crumbling buildings, the same tired, overworked, faces, even the ill-dressed children, playing some kind of game at the end of the street. Just like home, he thought bitterly, and turned to follow Bodie into the pub.

The place was the same as a thousand others back home. The bar was a solid, massive barrier of pitted dark wood, a battered fortress occupying the whole of the back wall, and protruding out to the middle of the stained wooden floor. A bench lined the wall on one side, booths marched along the other, and a scattering of small round tables vied for the remaining space. There were only a few patrons, most of them strung along the length of the bar, absorbed in their drinks. Behind the bar stood a tall, solid man in a black shirt and white apron, nodding amiably to the ramblings of the nearest patron while he occupied himself with polishing glasses, the sacred pastime of barmen everywhere.

The bartender glanced their way as they came in, and his eyes flickered over them both with a sharp, assessing look. He nodded shortly, not pausing in the rhythm of his polishing, and then he looked again, his brows knitting together as he studied the face of Doyle's partner.

"My God!" The outburst startled the row of peaceful drinkers, and one poor man lost his grip altogether, spraying beer in a gentle arc across the bar. But the bartender barely seemed to notice. "My God!" he said again, and strode for the gap in the bar, tossing his towel aside. "It can't be, can it?"

"In the flesh, Teddy," Bodie said, and allowed his hand to be engulfed.

"My God," Ted repeated. "Bodie, as I live and breath. It's been a lifetime."

"It has, at that," Bodie agreed, and the smile softened. "A lifetime and then some."

"Aye, for all of us." Ted gripped his hand again, and turned to Doyle.

"This is Ray Doyle," Bodie supplied, without amplification, but Ted didn't seem to need it. He seized Doyle's hand in a strong, firm grip, shaking his hand as it he really meant it.

"Pleased to meet you, Doyle." He released him, and gestured to the bar. "Come on, then. Let's have a round. This calls for a celebration."

Not only Doyle and Bodie, but the entire bar benefited from the round, Ted replenishing the glasses of every customer in the place, on the charge that they all drink together to his long-lost friend. The man who'd dropped his drink cheered the loudest, and his companion leaned over to give Doyle an unsteady kiss on the cheek.

"Not every day a stranger brings me good fortune," she said, and raised her glass to him with a smile before turning back to her partner. They both wore wedding rings, and Doyle speculated briefly on whether they were married to each other, then dismissed it as none of his business.

"What're you into now, Bodie?" Ted was asking, and he turned back to give the conversation his full attention.

"Civil service," Bodie said blandly, and grinned as he watched Ted's face go slack with shock for a full second. Then Ted threw back his head and laughed.

"Oh, Bodie," he said, wiping tears from his eyes. "I have missed you, son." He took a deep pull of his own beer, shaking his head. "And the thing is, I really believe you."

"I have," Bodie insisted. "Criminal Intelligence."

That sobered Ted quick, and Doyle felt a brief thrill of fear. "My God. CI5?" He dropped his voice as he said it, and looked around, as if scanning the bar for spies. "Cowley's lot?"

Now it was Bodie's turn to look amazed. "How the hell do you know that?" he hissed, dropping his voice in turn.

Ted laid a knowing finger alongside his nose. "I keep my ears to the ground yet," he said with a sly grin. "Oh, don't go looking at me like that, Bodie. We all know what we stood for in the old days, you and me both. I thought about it myself, but I was never asked."

"Their loss," Bodie said, and Doyle felt himself begin to relax. Bodie had put his seal on the other man, and that was enough for him. "Ted, if you wanted--"

"No!" The vehemence of the reply startled them all, and Ted's long face flushed. "No, but I thank you," he said, more calmly. "I've got my place, and that's all I want now."

\-----

They stayed at the bar the rest of afternoon, at first drinking with Ted at the bar itself and then, later, moving to the back booth for a late lunch and more beer. Ted's partner came in to tend bar later, and Ted was able to join them, refusing to let them so much as pay for a drink, and swapping memories with Bodie while Doyle looked on. He didn't participate much in the conversation, only adding his voice when he felt that his partner was missing a vital fact, such as who, exactly, was responsible for the collapse of a false wall during one memorable stake-out session. But for the most part, he was content to simply watch and listen, and occasionally feel the surreptitious caress of Bodie's knee against his under the table.

As the afternoon wore on, most of the patrons at the bar departed. By five, only three drinkers remained at the bar: an old man that had been nursing the same beer for upwards of two hours, and the woman who'd kissed Doyle's cheek and her companion. The two of them had, by Doyle's casual estimation, put away enough liquor to float a battleship by now, and the man was having a hard time even staying in his seat. They were both laughing, though, and even as Doyle glanced over again, they were ordering another round. Doyle turned back to see Ted watching them, too.

"Regulars?" Doyle asked, and Ted returned to him.

"No," he said after a moment. "The man, that's John McMurray. He used to be regular, until he took the pledge two years ago. Her name's Maggie, but I've never seen her here before. She came in with him." He looked over again, and his face tightened. Doyle followed his gaze, just in time to see the man finally slide off the stool, puddling in a loose, sodden heap on the floor. "That's it," Ted said grimly, and stood up. "Excuse me."

John was already trying to get to his feet when Ted seized his arm and hauled him upright, leading him to the bench to sit him down. "That's all right, then," Ted said easily. "Sit down, John."

The woman slid unsteadily from her stool and tottered over, still clutching her drink in her hand. "Johnny?" she said. "You okay?"

"He's fine," Bodie had slid out to follow his old friend, and he took her arm to guide her to a chair before she fell. "As fine as you, anyway," he added, and she cocked her head up at him.

"I'm fine," she assured him, and smiled broadly. She was a good-looking lady, Doyle thought sadly, or had been before the booze had got to her. She was tall and shapely, with jet-black hair bound in a long braid as thick as his wrist. Her eyes were a clear, deep gray, set wide in a strong, elegantly-boned face. But the booze had ravaged her, puffing her eyes with sags of dissipation, turning the pale cheeks rosy with burst blood vessels. She couldn't have been much older than Doyle himself, but she looked every year of it and more.

The other bartender came up, and spoke quietly to Ted. "I've called John's daughter. She says she knows the woman, Margaret Logan. Says she'll call her son."

"Good. Let's get these two some coffee, all right? Maybe they'll sober up some before Ellen gets here." Ted straightened up, and gave Bodie an apologetic look. "Sorry, mate."

"It's all right." Bodie slung a casual arm around Doyle's shoulders, giving him a gentle poke. "We've scraped a few off barroom floors ourselves, right sunshine?"

"That's right," Doyle agreed. "And they weighed a sight more than this lot."

"Then next time it'll be your turn," Bodie told him cheerfully, and broke away as the bartender arrived with a pot of coffee. The chatter hadn't lightened Ted's mood, though, and Bodie's face was concerned as he watched his friend guide a half-filled mug of coffee to John McMurray's lips. The man made a face as the strong stuff went down, but after it was inside him he looked a little clearer, though that wasn't, admittedly, saying very much.

Ted stood up as the door opened, and tightened his jaw as a slim, blond-haired girl came in, her face set in a grim expression that was, Doyle soon realized, nothing more than a mask to keep herself from bursting into tears. She gave John a single, stricken look, and glanced at the woman. There was someone with her, a tall young man, barely past being a teenager, with the gangly, lean strength of someone who hadn't quite finished growing out of adolescence. He took one look at Maggie, and swore softly under his breath while the girl went to her father.

"Oh, Dad," she said quietly, and took John's arm. "Thanks for calling," she said to Ted, but her voice was stiff, the courtesy forced. She helped her father up, and gestured to the boy as he went towards the woman. "This is Mike Logan." She nodded to Maggie. "That's his mother."

Of course he is, Doyle thought, wondering that he hadn't recognized it from the start. The shape of the face was different, but it was the same dark hair, the same pale skin. And when Mike glanced up, his eyes raking over each of them in turn, they were the same eyes, dark, smoke-gray, heavy brows drawn close over the bridge of his hawkish nose. He didn't pause for introductions, though, contenting himself with a single curt nod before striding to the woman and putting a hand under her elbow. "Come on, Mother," he said, his voice soft, but deep and resonant, and filled with the tired, angry resignation of someone who has done this too many times before. "Time to go home."

Maggie twisted to look up at him, her arched brows furrowing as she struggled to bring him into focus. Her eyes cleared, just for a moment, and her mouth pursed tightly as she yanked her arm away. "No!" she snapped, and suddenly the friendly, tipsy drunk was gone. She pushed away, lurching to her feet, and stumbled back towards the bar, shaking her head. Mike made no move to follow her, merely watched her until she fetched up to the bar, hanging on to the polished rim to keep herself from falling. His jaw worked for a moment, and Doyle saw his hands, still lifted as if to hold her, clench into fists and then drop to his sides. Mike turned to the girl.

"Go on, Ellen," he said tightly. "Take him home. This might take a while."

"You sure?" Ellen, already steering her father to the door, cast a doubtful glance over her shoulder. "If you need me . . ."

"I'll handle it." He reached out, and touched her shoulder. "Thanks for calling me, okay?"

"Sure." John swayed against her and she staggered, bearing him up and pushing him gently to the door. "You take care, Mike. Good luck."

"Thanks." When she was gone, he turned back to the room, studying his mother pensively as she manhandled herself back onto a stool. "Great," he muttered to himself, and took a deep breath, wiping a hand down his face.

"Anything we can do, mate?" Doyle heard someone say, and realized only when he saw Bodie shoot him a sharp glance that the voice was his own. "Had a bit of experience ourselves," he added, and the young man turned slowly to look at him, scanning him up and down.

"No," Mike said presently. "But thanks." He turned back. "I know how to handle her." He walked across the room, and raised his voice as he neared the bar. "Mother." He stopped behind her, waiting. "Mother, come on. We need to go home."

She ignored him, trying in vain to catch the attention of the bartender. "Hey!" she finally shouted, half-leaning over the bar, arms braced to hold herself up. "Hey, I need another down here!"

Mike rubbed briefly at his temples. "Mother," he said, and his voice was harsh now, rough with frustration. "You've had enough. Let's go."

It happened faster than Doyle could follow. One minute she was half-lying across the bar, the next she was lunging away, her fist swinging out in a wild arc that would have felled anyone in range, would have felled her son if he hadn't had the presence of mind to duck. Doyle hadn't even seen it coming, but the kid's reflexes were, obviously, honed by experience. He ducked again, swaying back as she swung with the other fist, and this time she overbalanced, tumbling down in a clumsy heap on the hardwood floor. Mike hesitated, his body still tense and alert, ready to move, but then her shoulders began to heave, her hands coming up to cover her face.

"I'm sorry," she sobbed. "Sorry, Mikey. I didn't mean it, Mikey."

Mike said nothing. He stood watching for a moment, as if gauging whether or not the heaving sobs were genuine, but soon the tension went out of his body and he bent down beside her, slipping his hands under her arms to haul her to her feet. She clung to him for a moment, still sobbing, her hands wrapping in the thin cotton of his T-shirt. "I want to go home," she sniffled, and Mike slid an arm over her shoulders.

"Sure," he promised. "I'll get you home." He glanced over his shoulder at the bartender. "Could you call a cab, please?" The bartender moved to obey, but even as he did Maggie Logan suddenly slumped against her son, her head lolling on his shoulder as she became a sudden dead weight in his arms. Bodie was there in an instant, taking half the weight on his own shoulders, and together they lifted her into a chair. Bodie held her upright, bracing her shoulders while Mike bent in front of her, taking her chin in his hand to study her face with an expert eye. He slapped her, not terribly gently, but it didn't stir her.

"It's no use," Mike said after a minute. "She's out."

"Right." Bodie got his shoulder under her arm again, and nodded for Doyle to get the door. "Come on," he said, and pulled her up, leaving it to a startled Mike to get the other side.

"What the hell are you doing?" Mike demanded, his fair skin darkening. "I can handle this, okay? She's my mother."

"Yeah, and she just took a swing at you," Bodie said.

The color fled as quickly as it had risen, leaving the young man's face almost ghostly in the dim light. "What, you think I'll take one back? Is that what you think?"

"Hey, hey." Ted stepped between them, turning to face Mike. "He's just trying to help."

"What I mean," Bodie said, overriding Ted's attempt to make peace, "is that if she wakes up, she's not going to want to go. You can hardly wrestle her in and out of a cab by yourself, can you?"

"I--"

"Well come on, then." And Bodie started walking, leaving Mike no choice but to follow.

"Look," Mike tried again as they walked out to the curb, still carrying his mother between them. "It's not that I don't appreciate the offer. But this is my problem. I can take care of it myself."

"Sure you can," Doyle said, opening the back door and reaching down to grab Maggie's feet. "But this way, you don't have to." He helped Bodie prop her in the back seat, and crawled out so that her son could get in beside her. Mike hesitated on the curb, then threw up his hands and climbed in.

Bodie leaned in through the window. "I'll be just a minute," he said, and started back inside, Doyle at his heels. Ted met them at the door, Mrs. Logan's purse in his hand.

"Here you are, Bodie," he said. "You don't have to do this. I can--"

"It's no trouble, Teddy."

"Yeah, right," Doyle said darkly. "Speak for yourself."

Bodie shot him a unapologetic look, then turned to Ted again. "It was good seeing you again," he said. "Best of luck."

"You too, Bodie. Good meeting you, Doyle." He shook Doyle's hand. "Take care, both of you, and come back if you can."

"We will," Bodie promised, and shook his hand before turning to Doyle. "Come on, Ray. Let's get Miss Maggie home."

Once they started off, Mike directed them north, up to the East Side where, he explained, he and his sister lived. "Dad's still at work, and my brothers are just kids." He turned his head, looking down at his mother, passed out against the window, his lips thinning. "They don't need this."

'Neither do you,' Doyle didn't say, but kept the thought to himself. They made the rest of the drive in silence.

\-----

It was nearly six-thirty by the time they pulled up in front of Katy's apartment. Mike got out and started to pull his mother's feet around, trying not to think about how late it was, and the fact that he was supposed to have clocked in at work an hour ago. It'd be the middle of the dinner rush right now, and if Ernie hadn't thought to fire him when he didn't show, he was surely thinking it now.

No help for it now, he thought grimly, reaching in to pull her forward, letting her flop limply over his shoulder like an overgrown rag-doll. The taller of the two strangers, the dark-haired one, was there again as Mike backed away from the curb, slipping his shoulder easily under his mother's arm.

"Which way, mate?" he asked, and in the face of his easy assumption, Mike had no choice but to point at the front door.

"It's four flights up," he couldn't help but add. "No elevator."

"Piece of cake," the other man assured him, grinning as he dashed up to hold the door for them. "Bodie here's a champion weight-lifter, isn't that right?"

"Oh, yeah," the other man, Bodie, presumably, grunted as he helped Mike lift Maggie Logan's inert form up the steps. "Seven days a week and twice on Sundays."

Mike appreciated the help, not being all that thrilled with the thought of having to carry her all the way up to the top floor, but he could have done without the running commentary. Thankfully, once they got in and began the undignified process of lugging his mother up four flights, exertion soon made speech difficult, if not impossible.

"Sweet Mary and Joseph." Mike looked up from the last landing as his sister's voice echoed down the stairwell. She must have heard them coming, the echo chamber that was the stairwell no doubt able to pick up every word. She was standing at the top of the steps, holding infant Margaret in her arms, her face set in a look of dismay mixed with pity. "Is she all right?"

"Yeah," Mike assured her curtly, too winded to add anything else. To his relief, Katy didn't ask any more. She nodded and disappeared. The three men reached the top of the stairs as Mike's mother, on cue, revived and began to stir. Mike was holding her shoulders, and Bodie, at her feet, had the sense to let them drop, let her get her own legs under her while Mike steadied her.

"Take it easy," Mike said, the roughness in his voice belying the words, but it was better than what he really wanted to do. What he really wanted was to take her by the arms and shake her till her teeth rattled, yell at her for doing this to them. But it wouldn't do any good, not now when she was so drunk she could barely see. It wouldn't, he suspected, do any good even if she'd been sober.

Speaking had been a mistake, anyway. She might not realize who it was that was holding her up, but she certainly knew his voice, and as soon as he spoke she was shoving at him, pushing him away from her. "Don't touch me," she got out, staggering back from the force of her own push, nearly toppling down the stairs before Mike got her arm and hauled her back from the edge. He knew what was coming next, was ducking down even as he reached for her, knowing her reflexive reaction whenever she was in this mood. The curly-haired stranger wasn't as quick, though, and Mike heard a startled curse as his mother's swung fist connected with the side of his face. It was weak, drunken blow, thank goodness, but it rocked his head back. His mother was struggling in his arms now, and Mike had had enough. He dodged another punch, then stepped in and wrapped his arms around her, pinning her arms to her sides, ignoring her curses and kicks as he lifted her off her feet. She wasn't a small woman, but she was no match for him, not any more.

"Come on," he said, grunting as a sharp heel connected with his shin. He carried her down the hall to the apartment, ignoring the curious looks from the other residents as they cracked their doors to see what was going on. The older ones, the ones that had lived in the neighborhood as long as Mike's family had been there, shook their heads knowingly as they turned away, long used to the sight of Maggie Logan in her cups.

He wished the two strangers would take the opportunity to quietly disappear, but no such luck. As soon as it was clear which door he was heading to, Bodie darted forward, reaching for the knob. His mother was cursing a blue streak now, forgetting, apparently, every time she'd washed Mike's mouth out with soap for taking the Lord's name in vain. From across the hall, old Mrs. Dispass blanched and quickly crossed herself as blasphemies poured out of Maggie's mouth, then disappeared inside. Following her cue, the other neighbors retreated, and Mike and the two men were left alone to wrestle his mother through the door.

"Get off me!" Maggie was almost screaming now, grabbing at the arms that held her, slapping ineffectually at Mike's gripping hands. "Get your filthy hands off me, Michael Logan!"

Now that they were safe inside, the door closed behind them, Mike was only too glad to oblige. He let her go with a suddenness that threw her off balance, and she staggered, nearly tipping over until Katy, waiting just inside, reached out a strong arm to catch her.

"Mike's only trying to help, Mother," she said sternly, but quietly. "He's brought you all the way home."

Maggie swayed in her grip, swinging an arm out to point an accusing finger. "It's all his fault!" she shouted. "What's a mother to do? My boy, my son . . ." Her face crumpled, and she began to sob again, turning to Katy to bury her head on her shoulder. "I brought him up right, Lord," she prayed into her daughter's ear, the two identical dark heads pressed close together. "Took him to church, prayed for him every day of his life. And look!" She lifted her head, her red-rimmed eyes searching Mike out, her chin trembling with tears, her mouth twisted in bitterness. "Look at him!" she cried out, and pulled Katy's face around, forcing her to face her brother. Then she released her abruptly, stumbling closer to Mike, raising a hand to point at his face. "I saw you," she slurred, swaying gently on her feet. "I saw you on the stairs last night, saw you kissing that boy. My boy, my son, kissing another boy. You make me sick!" She tried to slap him, her hand flashing up, but Mike was used to that too. He caught her wrists, hard, and pushed her back, trying to think of a way to salvage this, to keep this ugly scene from getting any uglier. He was acutely, embarrassingly aware of the two strangers hovering in the corner, trying very hard to pretend that they hadn't been witness to a private family quarrel. It was useless to imagine that they somehow hadn't heard, that his secret hadn't been blurted out to them, and to whoever else happened to be on the other sides of the tissue-thin walls.

"Mother, you're drunk," he said harshly. "You don't know what you saw, yesterday, or today, or any day. You're a drunk, and the only thing you saw yesterday was the bottom of a goddamn whiskey bottle."

"Mike!" Katy's voice called him around. "Mike, that's enough."

Slowly, Mike let his mother go. She was staring up at him, either too stunned or too drunk to answer, her face slack with shock. She shut her mouth, and swallowed. "I didn't have a drink yesterday," she said quietly, and Mike felt a sudden, cold stab of guilt. He swallowed, and surprised himself with the gentle apology of his next words.

"I know. I know you didn't." He reached out, hesitating, and then took her arm. "Come on. Let's go sleep this off."

She didn't fight him. It was a routine he was all too familiar with, watching her swing from belligerence to melancholy and back again. He'd learned, over the years, to simply ride out the former, and take advantage of the latter. She leaned on him as he led her to the back of the apartment, to the tiny, cramped room that he now shared with his two-year-old nephew. Little Mikey was nowhere in evidence, and he guessed that Katy had sent him off as soon as Mike had gone to fetch their mother. Between the two of them, he and his sister got Maggie in Mike's bed, forcing her to down a pair of aspirin and a glass of water before letting her sink into sleep. Katy covered her with a blanket, leaning down to push the straggling strands of hair from her face, then rose and followed Mike out, shutting the door behind them.

They turned to face each other in the hallway, and Mike flinched as he saw the look on his sister's face.

"Who was it?" she asked quietly.

"Does it matter?" he evaded feebly, but he knew it was no use. "It was just a kiss, Katy."

"Mike . . . " Katy bit her lip, and cast a sudden look over her shoulder, as if only then remembering that they had company. She turned back, and then her face softened, and she reached up to frame Mike's face in her hands. "Never mind," she said quietly, and kissed his cheek. "I'm sorry."

"Me, too," he said, and meant it. He took her hand, squeezing it gently. "Come on."

But when they returned to the living room, they found that the two other men had, finally, taken the chance to make a belated exit. 'Too late,' Mike thought sourly, but he could hardly blame them. 'Not every day that an act of charity lands you in the middle of a stranger's dirty laundry. And not every day,' he thought bitterly, 'that the stranger turns out to be a fag.' He said nothing of it to Katy, though, merely turned to her with a shrug.

"Guess they left," he said, and glanced up at the clock.

Katy followed his eyes. "And now it's your turn," she said, and gave him a push towards the door. "Go on. If you get there before seven, you might still have a job."

Privately, Mike doubted it, but he still hesitated. "You'll be all right?"

She waved it away. "I'll manage," she said firmly. "But you won't if you lose that job. Now go." The baby started to cry from the back bedroom, and she gave him another shove. "Go!"

Mike went.

\-----

He took the stairs three at a time, wishing, just this once, that he had the money for bus fare. It was a good half-hour's walk to work, and the lost time might be the difference between merely getting chewed out and getting fired. And he couldn't afford--not in any sense of the word--to get fired, not even from a shitty minimum-wage job slinging plates at the lunch counter. Katy was generous about the rent, taking only what Mike could afford to give her, but she couldn't afford to start feeding him too, not with the new mouth in the household. And Margaret's birth had upped the population of the tiny apartment to five, too many for a single two-bedroom place. He was going to have to move out soon, and he couldn't do that and look for a job, too.

His preoccupations kept him distracted until he reached the street, but when he came out onto the stoop, the last sight in the world he expected to see were the two men from the bar, leaning against their rental car and chatting as though they hadn't a care in the world. How embarrassing.

"Took your time," the dark one, Bodie, said. "How's your old lady?"

"Passed out," Mike said, too startled to say it any less crudely, or even think not to reply. "I thought you'd taken off."

"Naw," the other man said. "Thought we'd just withdraw gracefully, wait for you out here."

Mike should have been heading up the street, gratitude or no, hightailing it as fast as he could to Ernie's. But he was curious. "What for? How'd you know I'd be coming out?"

"Told us you were late for work," Bodie said. "And it's Tuesday."

"Our good Samaritan day," the other chimed in. "Rides a specialty."

A dark, unpleasant suspicion was beginning to form in Mike's head. "Look," he said evenly, "Whatever the old lady might have said up there, whatever you think she might have seen, she was drunk, all right?" He swallowed, forcing himself to be calm, to not shout the words. "Whatever you want, I don't think I'm interested." And he turned and started to walk off.

If any signal passed between the two men, it wasn't audible, but the next moment they were both there, jogging to keep up. "Hold on," Bodie said, and put a hand on his arm, withdrawing it quickly as soon as Mike stopped walking. "Jumping to conclusions, aren't you? Tuesday's good Samaritan day, right? Ravishing young men's not until Wednesday, right Doyle?"

"'S right," Doyle answered. "Wouldn't be right, ravishing on a Tuesday."

"Funny," Mike said tightly. "Now fuck off." He strode away again, seething, and also a little scared. Two against one. They were both smaller than he was, but the easy way they'd heaved his mother around suggested that neither of them would be a pushover. He cursed himself silently for accepting their help, thinking, now, that they knew where he lived, knew his name, everything about him. Everything.

"Bugger," he heard Doyle mutter, and the quick trot of feet as he caught him up again. "Would you listen for a minute, mate? We're not interested in your virtue, all right? Such as it might be." He was trotting gently to keep up with Mike's long strides, backpedaling to keep his face in view. "Look, I know you're probably mortified about what she said up there. I'd be, too, if my mum blurted out to a couple of strangers what she'd seen me up to in the back garden. And it wasn't only kissing, let me tell you."

"Very true," Bodie agreed from the other side, likewise walking backward to keep Mike in sight. "We've got some sympathy, all right? Been through it ourselves, haven't we?"

"Have you?" Mike didn't believe a word of it, and let his tone say as much. The two men exchanged a glance.

"Look, we know that you think that _we_ think you're some kind of flaming poof, all right?"

"'Poof?' What the hell's that?" Mike asked angrily, even though he thought he might have a good idea what it meant. "That an English queer or something?" The corner was coming up, and in a minute they'd be on a busier street, a place with more people, more cars, and hopefully more chances to get away. Mike's heart was pounding, and he felt a chill sweat on the small of his back.

"Something," Bodie admitted. "But you're missing the point." Another look, and the two men suddenly stopped dead, right in front him. Mike had to stop to avoid colliding with them, and he stood, feeling himself pale with rage, knowing that the two of them had effectively blocked him off. He didn't need this, not today, not now. Bodie looked at him thoughtfully. "Look, Mikey . . ." Mike started, hearing the familiar nickname from him, wondering that it didn't sound wrong. "We know it's not easy." He held out a hand, palm out, right over Mike's stomach. "Got yourself all in a twist here, haven't you? Trying to suss what we'll do, might even think we want something to keep our mouths shut."

"'S not going to happen," Doyle said, picking up Bodie's speech as if they'd rehearsed it a hundred times, his voice even matching his friend's, soft, and solemn. "Got nothing to fear from us." He jerked his head towards Bodie. "Like he said, we've been there ourselves." He paused. "Still are there, if you take my meaning." He waited, and let it sink in.

Something of the shock must have shown on his face, for all that he tried to tell himself that he wasn't surprised. Bodie took a step nearer, leaning a little closer, having to look up to meet his eyes but still making Mike feel as if the three of them were suddenly the only people in the world. "You're not alone, mate," he said quietly. "No matter what they tell you, it's not just you, it's not something wrong with you. Remember that, all right?" He looked over at Doyle, and after a moment they stepped aside, clearing Mike's way.

He looked from one to the other, wary. "Is this still part of the good Samaritan act?" he heard himself ask. "A few words of advice and off I go?"

"Something like that," Doyle said, and grinned. "Unless you'd still like to take us up on the ride."

\-----

They dropped the kid off in front of a sleazy-looking diner on the corner of a busy street. They hadn't offered to wait, and he hadn't asked, but wait they did, until they saw him take up a position behind the crowded counter, wearing a cap and apron and, clearly, not yet out of a job. Bodie pulled away from the curb, resisting the reflexive urge to drift to the other side of the street, and drove off.

"Well," he said presently. "That's the kind of afternoon you don't have every day. Want to go back to Ted's?"

"We could," Doyle said absently, and turned to look out the window. "Poor kid," he added presently. "You see his sister? Younger than he was, two kiddies already. And his mother. Doesn't look hardly old enough to be a mother, much less a grandmother."

"Sounding familiar?"

Doyle only shrugged. "Something familiar, anyway. Poor bastard. Did you notice, they're Catholic? Can't be much sympathy for him there."

"We did our best, Ray," Bodie said, answering the question that Doyle hadn't asked.

"Oh, sure. A few platitudes, a pat on the head. That'll help."

"What else are we supposed to do? Put him in our baggage, take him back with us? We can tell Cowley he followed us home, ask if we can keep him." He waited, but when Doyle failed to respond, he glanced over and noticed, with concern, that he was actually looking thoughtful. "Ray," he said quickly, "I was kidding."

"Eh? Oh, right, right. I know." But the thoughtful look remained, and after a long pause, Doyle turned to face him. "I was thinking about him," he said. "About what it must be like. Caught grabbing a kiss on the back stairs, for God's sake."

"Did you do any different, at his age?"

"Me?" Doyle actually looked taken aback. "I dunno," he said eventually. "At his age, I wasn't living with my sister in a flat the size of a handkerchief. Had my own place, didn't I. Could take a bird--or a bloke--home with me with no worry about who might see us."

"But if it was a bloke, you worried, didn't you?"

"Maybe. A little." Doyle straightened up abruptly. "Anyway," he said briskly. "Not our problem, is it?"

"No," Bodie agreed firmly. "It isn't."

\-----

They spent the rest of the evening with Ted, and for a while it seemed as though the encounter with Mike Logan was forgotten. It was over, they'd done what they could, and that was the end of it. Or should have been.

"You hungry, Ray?" Bodie asked as they drove back toward the hotel.

Ray checked his watch. "Nearly eleven 'o clock, mate. Bit late, isn't it?"

"Drinking and talking all night, it makes a fellow hungry."

Doyle didn't argue. "What'd you have in mind?"

Casually, Bodie checked the mirrors and changed lanes. "I was thinking maybe Ernie's." He risked a glance over, and caught Doyle looking at him.

"Bodie . . .," his partner said warningly. "What's going on?"

"Nothing," Bodie protested, then made a liar of himself the next sentence. "Come on. You can't let it go, can you?"

"Let what go?" Doyle asked, stubbornly refusing to take his meaning, even though the set line of his jaw showed clearly that he'd understood exactly what Bodie was talking about.

"Mike Logan. You've been brooding about it all night."

"And what if I have?" was the sullen reply. "You tell me you haven't thought about him."

"Maybe," Bodie admitted. "Which is why I think it'd do us both good to sample the dining at Ernie's."

"We're not his mum and dad, Bodie."

"That's not what I had in mind," Bodie told him, pouring every ounce of innuendo he had on hand into the words. For a moment, Doyle was actually speechless.

"You're mad!" he finally sputtered. He would have gone on, but Bodie interrupted him, slipping smoothly to deflect the indignant words.

"Am I?" He made a turn, heading back up to where they'd dropped off Mike not four hours before. "Don't tell me you didn't think about it."

"Yeah, well, that's thinking about it," Doyle said, not bothering to deny it. He turned and looked out the window. "And that's all I'm going to do. It wouldn't be right, Bodie."

"Says you," his partner countered. He paused to navigate through a crowded intersection, and to formulate his attack. "Is it because of us?" he asked abruptly. "You thinking we ought not stray?"

"Wouldn't make a difference if we strayed together, now, would it?" Then, realizing what he'd said, what he'd implicitly revealed about his own thoughts, Doyle shut his mouth. But only for a moment. "He's only a kid," he said. "We can't tumble him and then get on a plane back to England the next morning."

"Why not?" Bodie persisted. "Look, I think he knows we're not from around here."

"I can't believe I'm even having this conversation with you," Doyle told him. Then he added, "It'd only make things worse."

"You don't know that." They'd finally reached the street where the diner was located, and Bodie began maneuvering the car into a space right around the corner. "You said it yourself," he went on, backing up carefully until he was a hair's breadth from the bumper behind him, then inching forward against the curb. "Caught kissing a lad on the stairs, and I'll bet that's all there's been to it." He switched the car off and turned to face Doyle in the front seat, neither of them making a move to get out of the car. "You remember your first time, Ray?" he asked quietly.

Reluctantly, not meeting his eyes, Doyle finally nodded. "Yeah, I do."

"Much fun for you?"

He shrugged. "It was all right. We just didn't know--" He broke it off, and glared at his partner, refusing to add weight to his argument. "If that's what you're worried about, we could just give him money for a rent boy."

"Hey, I'm not talking about charity, here," Bodie protested. "I'm only saying, we both know what it's like, being his age, feeling what he's feeling and not knowing what he's supposed to do about it. I mean, who's he going to ask? And any other bloke he meets, chances are they'll be in the same boat, won't they? And they'll fumble around, and someone will get hurt, and he'll suffer the rest of his life."

The look Doyle was giving him was indescribable, disbelief, wonder, and disgust mixed together. "Got it all worked out, haven't you?" he said. "Talked yourself right into having a go at him, you have." He threw a hand out, gesturing towards the diner. "Well, don't let me stop you."

"Don't be daft," Bodie snapped. "I wouldn't do it without you, and you know it. I'm just saying, I think we both might have wished for a couple of blokes like us ten years ago."

"Yeah, but what do we know about what _he_ might wish for?" Doyle countered, and to that Bodie had no answer.

"All right," he said finally, and reached for the keys. "You want to go?"

"No!" Bodie jumped at the sharpness of the reply, and Doyle looked a little startled himself, as if he hadn't expected the vehemence of his own response. "Look, we're here," he said after a shocked moment of silence had gone by. "We might as well go in." He glared as Bodie began to grin at him. "Right?"

"Right."

\-----

It had been a long shift. Ernie might have stopped short of firing him, but he wasn't exactly pleased with his tardy counterman, and he showed his displeasure by assigning an endless laundry list of dirty, menial jobs for Mike to do in his brief spare moments. In between, he glared at every order Mike called back, and woe betide him if he was a nanosecond slow in snapping up the orders as they came off the rack. By the time Ernie finally packed in his apron and went home, Mike felt like he'd spent the last four hours in some form of Diner Purgatory. He was tired and sweating, and he had a second-degree burn on the end of his little finger from a spilled drop of too-hot cooking grease from an order of onion rings. He'd dropped the plate, too, and Ernie had given him hell for it. As a final petty display of pique, Ernie had "forgotten" to give Mike his break, and by eleven-thirty, when Ernie finally left, he was starving. Ten minutes after Ernie left, he was standing at the corner of the counter having an illicit snack of fried potatoes and scrambled eggs, slipped to him by the sympathetic hand of the short-order cook. It was all he could do not to drop the plate on the floor when the door opened and Bodie and Doyle strolled in.

At first, Mike didn't believe his own eyes. He knew he was tired, and hungry, and he wouldn't have been in the least bit surprised if he _had_ started imagining things. Things like seeing his two "good Samaritans" come through the front door of the diner, looking around as if they'd never been in one before. Then Bodie's sharp eyes flicked over to him, and he slapped his partner lightly on the arm, directing his attention to Mike's end of the counter. They sauntered over, grinning identical greetings to him, and slid onto two stools in front of him. Bodie leaned forward and gave the plate a sniff.

"Looks pretty good," he said.

"Yeah, if you see the help eating it, it can't be bad, right?" Doyle said to him, both of them speaking as if Mike weren't even there.

"Can I help you?" Mike asked, tingeing his words with more than a touch of sarcasm.

They glanced up, as if surprised to remember that he was still there, and then looked at each other again. "Two orders of that, please," Bodie said for both of them. "And coffee."

"Wait," Doyle protested. "You don't have to drag me along to your grave as well."

"Fine," Bodie said equably, grabbing a menu and pushing it in front of him. "You find something healthy on there, and I'll buy it for you." He turned back to Mike. "In the meantime, we'll have two of those."

Mike shouted the order back, and brought the coffee for them. He was glad for the distraction of the job, nonplused by their sudden appearance and not sure, exactly, how to handle it. And not sure why he cared.

They thanked him in grave unison as he set the cups in front of them, but neither of them made any move to drink. Instead, when he would have moved away, finding some excuse to be busy at the other end of the counter, Bodie spoke to him.

"Glad you didn't lose the job, mate," he said. "We were worried, about you, weren't we."

"That's right," Doyle seconded. "Thought we'd come by and impress your boss."

"Well, you're ten minutes too late to do that," Mike told them. He hesitated a minute. "But thanks anyway." He glanced over his shoulder. They were practically alone in the place, only one young woman reading a book in the far corner, and the cooks making the usual racket in back. He lowered his voice, and leaned on the counter. "Look," he said awkwardly, not sure how to make it sound right. It wasn't something he was used to. His family wasn't big into apologies. "I'm sorry," he said finally, "about the way I acted this afternoon. After . . . after you helped me with the old lady and all. You didn't have to do it, and I never thanked you for it."

"Hey, it was nothing," Bodie assured him. "Part of the service, right?"

Mike swallowed. That wasn't exactly what he'd meant to say, but it was a start. "I'm not just talking about that," he began, and was interrupted by the bell from the order window.

"Order up, Mike!"

"Got it!" he called back, and grimaced an apology at the two men before pushing off to collect their orders. He gathered up the plates and turned to ferry them back to the two men, but as he approached he saw Bodie turn to Doyle, leaning over with a sly grin to murmur something in the other man's ear, something that made him laugh, and duck his head in an emphatic nod. Bodie kept murmuring, and smiling, swiveling on the stool so that his arm brushed against his companion, one finger lifting to tap at the bare skin of Doyle's forearm. It was a friendly touch, nothing more than the most casual of pats, but it stirred a sudden, painful memory in Mike, the memory of him and Joey standing in the shadows of the back stairs, Mike's hand on Joey's arm, the other boy's breath catching in his throat as Mike's lips touched his.

It had been a mistake, a stupid, impulsive, lust-driven act, and Mike had regretted it the instant it happened. And then all the regrets had melted away, dissolving in the heat of Joey's mouth on his, and the breathtaking touch of Joey's fingers, lifting tentatively to frame Mike's face in his hands. And for one long, glorious minute, they'd stood there, lost in each other, mouths devouring, hearts pounding. And then Mike had shifted forward the merest fraction, feeling himself harden as the incredible softness of Joey's lips slid against his. It was a dangerous, illicit thrill, the rough-stubbled cheek under his mouth, the strength and weight of the body in his arms, knowing it was supposed to be forbidden, and yet knowing that it felt so good. His hips brushed Joey's, the hardness of his arousal kissing briefly against Joey's matching erection. It had throbbed through him like a jolt of liquid heat, the pulse of desire so strong that he almost came then and there. He'd pushed forward again, mindless, rubbing his crotch against Joey's, feeling the other boy thrust back, hips grinding together once in an all-too-fleeting climb towards ecstasy.

Then Joey had pushed him away, shaking, his face flushed with passion and with embarrassment, his erection straining visibly at the front of his pants, unfulfilled. They'd stared at each other, Mike seeing the shock in his eyes, knowing that some of the bewilderment he saw there was reflected in his own face. It wasn't Mike's first time here, not by a long shot, but he knew, now, that it was Joey's, and he saw, with a sinking heart, the horror rising in the other boy's eyes. He'd licked his lips, stepping forward, reaching a gentle hand to Joey's arm. "Joey . . ."

But Joey had run away. Not a word, not a sound. He'd simply fled, turning his back to Mike and putting as much distance between them as he could, as fast as he could. Mike hadn't seen him since.

And his mother had seen the whole thing.

That thought was enough to shock him back to the present, and he realized, with some surprise, that he was in the process of sliding the laden plates in front of the other two men, even his deep reverie not enough, it seemed, to disturb the powerful inertia of routine. Just as well. It would have been more than embarrassing to be caught staring off into space with two plates of eggs and potatoes sliding off his arms. And especially embarrassing to have to explain the reason.

"Ta, mate," Bodie said, picking up his fork and poking at the eggs that Mike pushed over to him.

"You need anything?" he asked, before they could engage him in any more conversation. "More coffee?"

"No, thanks," Doyle said. "We'll manage."

Mike nodded, and jerked his head over to the drink station. "I'll be cleaning up over here," he said. "Yell if you need anything." He shoved off without waiting for an answer, eager, for once, to be alone with his own thoughts for a while.

Up until now, he'd tried not to think about it too much. In that respect, Ernie's revenge had been something of a blessing, keeping him far too busy to worry about his own problems, and what his mother might say, and who she might say it to. It was no news to Katy, but it sure as hell would be news to his father. And that was one confrontation Mike hoped never to have. It'd kill the old man, maybe literally, and that was one thing Mike didn't want added to his conscience.

It wasn't even, he thought bitterly, as if he'd ever done anything that would even be worth all the pain and heartache. Stolen kisses, brief encounters in darkened rooms, frantic, hurried gropings in the bathroom stalls or the locker rooms at school. It was all furtive, shameful, none of the boys he'd been with even able, afterwards, to look him in the eye. But then they'd find themselves alone, with a few precious minutes, and it would happen again.

He shot a glance over to Bodie and Doyle, and was overwhelmed with a sudden, sharp pang of . . . something. Jealousy, maybe, or even self-pity. Or longing. They had, he thought sadly, each other. No need for endless flirting, countless pick-up lines, insincere promises, just for the chance to sweat up the sheets of some stranger's bed for an hour to two. And the women were the easy part. He was allowed, more or less, to pursue them, was expected to want them. And he did. But he wanted the other as well, and watching Bodie and Doyle, together, felt like having a hole ripped in his chest. He wanted what they had, and at the same time knew, with an almost physically painful flash of self-awareness, that it was something he might never have. Might never have the courage to have.

For the first time, he wondered what had brought them back here. To check up on him? Possibly. Because it was one of the only places they knew of to grab a bite at midnight in New York? Likely. It didn't, he realized, need to have anything to do with him at all. He was surprised, though, at how much that thought, true or not, hurt. 'Stupid,' he berated himself. 'What did you do, this afternoon, when you thought they might be coming on to you? And now you're wishing you could take it all back. And wishing that what you thought was true.'

They were talking again, Bodie tracing patterns on the counter between them, illustrating whatever it was that he was telling his partner. Doyle was smiling now, his head bent close to Bodie's, the two of them huddled in companionable collusion over the diagram Bodie was tracing. Mike watched them, and felt his throat tighten. He wished . . . he wanted . . . he wasn't sure what. If either of them had come alone, he would have known exactly what he wanted, and how to get it. But this was both of them. Trickier. Maybe even impossible. But he knew, now, that he had to try.

Bodie and Doyle were absorbed in their conversation, shoulders leaning together as they spoke in quiet undertones, barely aware, it seemed, of their surroundings. At least until Mike came over and slid two pieces of apple pie in front of them.

They looked up at him, mildly startled, and Doyle dropped his gaze to the plate in front of him. "Did we order this?" he asked, and Mike shook his head.

"On the house," he said, and grinned. "For services rendered."

Bodie was already tucking in, making an appreciative noise as he licked the filling from his fork. "Not bad," he said.

Mike let them get started, then leaned his hip against the counter, folding his arms on top of the smooth, cool surface, keeping his head close to theirs. "I didn't get a chance, before, to finish what I was saying," he said presently. "What you said, about what I was . . ." He stumbled, not sure, yet, how to identify himself with the words. "About what I might be feeling," he amended. He took a deep breath. "You were right. And what you told me . . . it helped."

Doyle looked at him seriously. "You're not alone, mate," he said. "Don't forget it, all right?"

"I won't," Mike promised. He glanced up as the door opened again, and waved absently as Elaine breezed through, heading for the office. "Well, my relief's here," he said. "I better look busy."

"Sure thing." Bodie pushed his empty plate aside. "How much do we owe?"

Mike glanced back, and slipped the ticket from under the plate, crumpling it in his pocket. "Like I said," he told him. "On the house." He picked up the dirty dishes and piled them in the dishpan, then wiped down the counter in front of them. A glance at the clock on the wall showed it to be nearly midnight, nearly time for him go home. "So," he said, striving to be casual, "today was your good Samaritan day. You interviewing for tomorrow yet?"

It took Doyle a second to get it, then he nearly choked on his coffee, his eyes wide. Bodie, on the other hand, was already grinning. "Why?" he asked. "You applying?"

"I might," Mike said slowly, buffing the edge of the counter, grinning back. "Hey, I might still lose this job. A man's got to keep his options open."

Bodie poked his partner, visibly enjoying the game. "What'd'ya think, Doyle? Think he's likely?"

"I dunno." Doyle looked him over. Playing along, Mike guessed, but there was a more serious assessment in the soft green eyes, something that made him turn quickly to toss a dirty cup into the dishpan, trying to hide the sudden betraying flush. Behind him, Doyle went on thoughtfully, "Reckon he might be a bit young, you know. Couldn't go breaking the law, could we?"

That made him turn back, brow raised. "Thanks," he said sourly, not sure whether to take it as a joke, a compliment, or a slap.

"That's right," Bodie said, as if he hadn't spoken. "Still, it's younger over here, isn't it?"

"Yeah," Doyle agreed, slipping into the now-familiar 'let's ignore Mike' routine, talking around and over him as if he'd suddenly vanished. And for all Mike knew, he had. "Eighteen, isn't it? Twenty-one back home, for two blokes anyway."

"Bloody stupid, if you ask me," Bodie said. "That's a double standard, that is. Now, two birds, there's nothing to stop them. But no, we have to wait three more bleedin' years. And they say they've got discrimination."

Mike cleared his throat, interrupting the discussion of equal rights, and earning himself identical looks of 'Oh, you're still here?' from the other two men. He leaned down a little, propping his elbows on the counter, ducking his head to speak in a soft undertone, for their ears alone. "I know you're kidding, all right?" he said quietly. "I just wanted you to know . . ." He glanced at them both, letting his eyes lock with each of their gazes in turn, then tilting his head forward, bringing his head between them, whispering into their straining ears. "_I'm not._"

With that, he stood up and walked to the back of the counter, busying himself preparing a fresh filter of coffee, his last task before he could turn things over to Elaine. He carefully didn't look back, not daring to risk betraying himself. His hands shook at his job, and he nearly spilled coffee grounds all over the counter. Nerves, from fear. And desire. He hadn't known, until the words came out, how badly he wanted it. He'd told himself it was loneliness, that he wanted someone who would understand, who'd know what it was like to want something other than soft curves and smooth skin, to want to feel that matching hardness when pressing close, to know that he was loving someone exactly like himself.

He took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down, to steady his jangling nerves. Merely thinking about it, about what he'd done, and what might come from it, left him as terrified, and as excited, as he'd ever remembered being in his life. Two emotions warring in him, twisting his belly in knots, cold fear and hot desire churning together until he thought he might actually be sick.

Part of him couldn't believe he'd actually done it. It was crazy, and stupid. 'Exactly the kind of impulse,' he reminded himself harshly, 'that led to Joey Cooper running away from you as fast as he could.' And the thought that these two might do exactly the same more than just crossed his mind. Who could, after all, blame them? They didn't know him, any more, he reminded, than he knew them. For all he knew, they could be a couple of hustlers themselves, preying on the young and innocent. 'Right, like you, Mikey,' he told himself sourly. 'Young and innocent, that's you to a "T." So innocent you made a pass at two--_two_\--perfect strangers.'

He risked a glance over his shoulder. And his heart dropped straight to his toes, the fear and desire wilting as one, replaced by the sickening crush of disappointment. The two stools were empty, the abandoned coffee cups left among the scattered crumbs and crumpled napkins. He hadn't even seen them go. Mike turned back, swallowing, berating himself for even letting himself get his hopes up. It had been stupid, he knew it. They'd been kidding, teasing him, maybe flirting a little, yeah, but harmless. And he'd taken it too far. It wouldn't be the first time.

So why did it still have to hurt so much?

\-----

Mike set a record counting out his till and clocking out, wanting nothing more to get the hell out of the stifling confines of the diner, out into the dubious sanctuary of the street. For once, the long walk home would be something to look forward to, a time to clear his churning thoughts, and hope he could get them under control before he had to face his family. It had been a hell of a day.

He said good-bye to the night crew, clocked out, chucked his apron and cap into the laundry, and headed gratefully for the front door.

Bodie and Doyle were waiting at the curb.

For a second, all Mike could do was stare. The turmoil was back, a tide of conflicting emotions so strong that, for a long time, he couldn't even speak. When he did, it was all he could do to summon up a phrase even as inane as, "What are you doing here?"

They looked at each other. "Waiting for you, mate," Bodie said calmly. He looked over at Doyle again. "I think we called his bluff, sunshine," he hissed in a stage whisper, and Doyle nodded solemnly.

The anger did what no amount of relief could do to clear his head, and let him find his voice again. "Hey, what was I supposed to think? You two cleared out of there so fast you left skid marks. Bluff, hell," he couldn't help adding, hearing the frustration in his own voice.

"Had to make sure, didn't we." Doyle said, and the humor was suddenly gone from his voice. "Didn't we?" he repeated, more softly, and Mike felt himself nod.

"Yeah, I guess so." He looked up and down the street, shoving his hands deep in his pockets, feeling the warm air on his skin. It was another hot night, the humidity in the air almost thick enough to cut, every breath like standing in a sauna. "So," he said presently. "You want to get out of this oven? Or are we going to stand here all night."

Bodie and Doyle looked at each other, shrugged, and stepped out into the middle of the sidewalk, flanking him effortlessly as they all began to walk down the street. Mike kept his hands in his pockets, to keep them from shaking, hoping that the sudden weakness in his knees wouldn't be obvious. This was, potentially, about the dumbest thing he'd ever done in his life. If these two weren't what they seemed--or even if they were--he might have bought himself more trouble than he could handle. And then Bodie touched his arm, signaling him to turn left with them at the corner, and the electric thrill of those broad fingers brushing his skin nearly made him gasp aloud. Maybe he needed a little trouble.

They spoke very little in the car, Mike being granted the front seat in deference to his longer legs, with Doyle driving and Bodie in the back. The only significant piece of conversation took place when they reached the hotel, after Doyle had switched off the engine and the car had fallen suddenly, deathly silent. Mike waited for Doyle to get out, then realized that Bodie was trapped in the back seat and reached for the door. But a strong, slim hand on his arm stopped him.

"Hang on a minute," Doyle said quietly. He didn't look at Bodie, and after a moment Mike realized that he didn't have to. They might not have rehearsed it, but Bodie knew, Mike was sure, exactly what Doyle was about to say. Once it was clear he had Mike's attention, Doyle went on. "Just wanted to say something, before we get on with this." He nodded behind Mike. "That's a door. You open it, we won't stop you. You walk away, we won't follow. Far as we're concerned, none of it ever happened."

The sensation of the hand on his arm was making it hard for Mike to breathe. "One last chance to back out?" he asked, and got a muffled chuckle from Bodie.

"No," Doyle answered. "First chance. I mean it," he went on, serious. "You want out, you say so. No hard feelings."

As far as Mike was concerned, the only thing hard about any of this was what was thankfully concealed by his jeans, but he didn't say it. "I'll remember," he promised. "Now, can we go?"

\-----

It hadn't really hit Mike exactly what it was that he was about to do. Not until he was standing in the hallway, watching Ray Doyle unlock the door, Bodie a very tangible presence at his side. He had no idea what awaited him on the other side of that door. He'd simply moved from place to place, reacting with thinking, tossed around like a pinball in a suddenly very high-stakes game. He'd thought he'd known what he wanted, back there at the diner, but now he wasn't so sure exactly what that want was. For the first time in a long time, he felt out of his depth, unsure of how to proceed, of which moves to make.

He followed Doyle uncertainly into the room, very much aware of Bodie's continued presence behind him. The room was nicely cool, a welcome contrast to the sweltering heat, and Mike was suddenly acutely aware of his own sweaty, smelly clothing, his skin slicked with the film of grime and grease that inevitably clung to his body after a night at the diner. He ran a hand through his hair, feeling the lank, oily weight of it against his fingers, the top of it mashed into a sweaty tangle from the work cap. Mike sent a surreptitious glance towards the mirror, wondering how bad he looked, and once he saw himself, couldn't decide whether to laugh out loud or die from embarrassment. He was a mess, his shirt and jeans stained with food and liberally splotched with grease and sweat, his hair falling in limp disarray over his forehead. It was a wonder they hadn't laughed in his face.

Bodie must have caught his involuntary grimace in the mirror, but when he spoke, his words showed more tact that Mike would have given him credit for. "You look knackered, son," he said.

Then again, tact had never been one of Mike's strong points, either. "I look like shit," he said, and felt himself smile. "Sorry, I didn't realize what I must look like."

Doyle waved it away. "Don't worry about it. Bodie and me, we've seen worse in our day. Been worse ourselves, haven't we?"

Mike appreciated the effort, but, he decided, he'd appreciate a lot more being clean. "Look, I know it's not the usual way of doing business, but I don't suppose you'd mind me taking a shower?"

"Whatever you want."

The touch of Bodie's hand on his hair was unexpected, the motion so smooth, so effortless, that Mike was hardly aware of it until the long fingers were running against his scalp, warm and tingling, sending a shivering thrill down his spine with one casual caress. Mike leaned into it, involuntarily, hardly realizing that it was exactly what Bodie intended until the warm lips were on his.

Taken unawares, Mike felt the soft shock of the kiss like a match to a powder train, the fire racing along his limbs, every part of him suddenly tingling and alive, all the sweat and dirt and weariness burnt to insignificance in a flash. He parted his lips, tasting the other man's mouth with relish, devouring the mingled flavors of coffee and whiskey and sweet apple pie, feeling Bodie give a startled jerk against him as Mike's tongue slipped, insistent, between his lips. But Mike was only allowed a brief taste, a promise of things to come, before Bodie was pulling back, regarding him with newfound amusement.

"Well, well," he said. "More than just a pretty face."

Mike might have been indignant at the adjective, if he'd had room in the turmoil of sensations for anything as trifling as indignation. His mouth was tingling with the kiss, his scalp prickling where Bodie's fingers were still threaded in his hair. Bodie smoothed his hand back, releasing him, but Mike felt the connection as if it were still tangible, a hot wire of pure lust coiled around his groin. A hand touched him gently from behind, and he jumped as Doyle spoke softly in his ear.

"Why don't you get that shower now?" he suggested, and Mike closed his eyes at the promises that crowded those innocent words. He sealed the promise with a soft kiss under the curve of Mike's jaw, and Mike nearly groaned out loud. Bodie, still standing in front of him, lifted a hand, but it was to Doyle's face that he reached, brushing his palm over the other man's cheek, pushing the soft curls back from his face. He leaned forward to kiss him, Mike pressed briefly between their two bodies, helpless. Then Bodie drew back, and touched Mike on the waist.

"Off you go," he said with a smile. "We'll be waiting for you."

\-----

Bodie watched Mike disappear into the bathroom, the door shutting behind him with a soft, apologetic click..

"Think he'll do a runner?" Doyle asked, voicing the question for them both.

"Not a chance," Bodie said with confidence. "Saw him yourself, didn't you. Think he's going to turn tail now?" He shook his head. "He just wants a minute. You know, like a bird who wants to do her makeup before, or brush her teeth. Give him some time."

But Doyle still didn't look happy. "We doing the right thing, Bodie?" he asked, and turned, startled, as Bodie made a disgusted noise in his throat.

"Don't start with me, sunshine," he warned, giving Ray his best stern look. "He offered, remember?"

"But we didn't have to take him up on it." Ray shook his head. "I don't want him getting hurt, that's all."

"And who's going to hurt him?" Bodie pointed out sensibly. "I thought that was the whole point. Show him a good time, make sure he _doesn't_ get hurt." He got up from his perch on the dresser, advancing on Doyle with a small smile playing around his lips. "Come on, Ray," he wheedled, drawing the other man into his arms, planting a soft kiss on his temple. "Don't you want to show him how it's done?" Another kiss, light as a feather, on his forehead, and another on his cheek. "Show him how good it can be?" He moved the kisses down, dropping them lightly on cheeks, nose, eyes and mouth, moving slowly over the planes of his partner's face. "Besides," he whispered softly into Doyle's warm, sallow skin, "He's bloody gorgeous, he is. I can't wait to see him when we get through with him. He'll be a bleedin' work of art, he will."

If Doyle had any more protests, they dissolved as Bodie kissed him again, using every trick he knew to distract his partner from his brooding. It wasn't, he was pleased to note, very hard to manage, and by the time they parted there was distinct gleam in Ray's eyes, a feral light that Bodie knew all too well. Knew, and treasured. "So," he said, running his hands up the sides of Doyle's arms, "Should we give him a show when he comes out? Something to break the ice a bit?"

Now Doyle was grinning with him. "You're wicked, you are," he said, but almost admiringly. Then he smiled, and leaned over to kiss him again. "Yeah," he said into Bodie's mouth. "Let's."

\-----

It was tempting for Mike to take his time in the shower, to savor the indulgence of unlimited hot water, and the further luxury of privacy, no need to rush because someone else would be waiting in line. Then he thought of what _was_ waiting, and that was enough to spur him into action. It was a short, vigorous shower, but he felt much better afterwards, some of the pain and tiredness of the day washing from his body along with the dirt and sweat, leaving him clean and alert.

Still, he hesitated at the door of the bathroom, suddenly, unaccountably shy at the thought of opening that door, of walking back into the bedroom. He wished now that he hadn't broken the mood, that he'd not disturbed the electric connection that had existed, however briefly, between himself and Bodie, and between Bodie and Doyle. It would have been so easy then, to take them both, to let them take him, but he hadn't done it. And now, he realized with a sinking heart, it might be too late to recreate it again. But he was never going to find out standing here.

At first, he didn't see the other two, and felt a brief moment of acute, humiliated panic. Then a soft noise from the bed turned his head in that direction, and he felt his mouth go suddenly dry.

They were lying on the bed, naked, arms and legs wrapped around each other in a complex, sensual tangle. Bodie's hands were buried in the thick softness of Doyle's hair, pulling him forward to be kissed while the other man's thin, strong arms locked around his back. One hand groped down, finding the round curve of a buttock and squeezing, and Bodie groaned, surging forward to take Doyle's mouth again. Ray's leg wrapped around Bodie, pulling him closer, and Bodie rocked against him, muscles rippling in his back as he dragged his hands down the length of Doyle's body, caressing over him as if he were a sculptor reveling in the feel of his finished masterpiece.

That was enough for Mike. He'd come out of the bathroom wearing a towel, hedging his bets, but now he discarded it, letting it drop to the floor before stepping up to the bed. Mike put a cautious knee on the mattress, eyes still fixed on the erotic tableau being played out in front of him. It was a performance for his benefit, he realized, and felt his half-hard cock stiffen in appreciation, rising up to thrust proudly forward in front of him. He settled himself carefully at the foot of the bed, watching, smiling, and waiting for them to acknowledge his presence.

It didn't take long. The bed had shifted under his weight, and Bodie took the hint, delivering one last searching kiss to Doyle's parted lips, then gently rolled away from his partner, both of them turning to smile down at him. Bodie looked him over assessingly, and reached over to poke Doyle on the shoulder. "What did I say, Ray?" he said. "Not just a pretty face." He turned on his back, displaying himself as unselfconsciously as a cat, fingertips trailing down the length of his own belly. He only allowed Mike a moment to look, though, to take in the broad, strong planes of his chest, the smooth pale skin, almost hairless but for the soft cluster of curls at his groin. Then he was rising up, moving to the foot of the bed.

Mike found it hard to breathe as Bodie drew nearer, stalking him on hands on knees exactly, Mike imagined, as sleek creatures of the jungle stalked their small, helpless prey. But Mike was neither small, nor helpless, and he saw the dangerous gleam in the other man's eye, the thrill of hunting something that might easily turn and hunt him back. He stopped short of him, smiling, then abruptly lunged forward and caught Mike's mouth with his.

The shock of the kiss was more than physical. Bodie had trapped him, lured him in, and now he had him in his net. He seemed to have grown several extra arms, all of which were holding, stroking, and caressing Mike, setting fire to his clean, damp skin, finishing what the kiss had started. It crossed Mike's mind that maybe Doyle was responsible for some of the strokes, pats, and caresses, but a brief lift of his eyelids showed him the other man still sprawled at the head of the bed, watching the show. Their eyes met fleetingly, and Mike felt the thrill of it go right through him, setting his body ablaze all over again. He put his arms around Bodie, reveling in the feel of the soft, smooth skin, in the hard muscle bunching and shifting under his hands. It was the first time, he realized dizzily. The first time he'd felt a man's naked body under his hands, been able to touch and caress and explore every part of it. He shifted forward, wanting more, and Bodie obliged.

The other man was a solid, silky-skinned weight in his arms, gloriously strong and hard against him. Mike knelt up, pulling Bodie towards him, and Bodie deftly straddled him, planting his knees on either side of Mike's hips, hands snaking down to curve over his ass. It was another new pleasure, the big, broad hands cupping him there, stroking appreciatively, and Mike returned the favor, squeezing and kneading Bodie's round buttocks until finally the other man tore his mouth away, gasping for breath.

"Christ," he breathed, burying his face briefly in Mike's hair, his hands drifting up to stroke gently at the nape of his neck. "And here I thought we were teaching you."

"Oh, I've been getting educated, I have," Doyle said from the head of the bed, and Mike turned to him guiltily, realizing that he'd been so lost in Bodie that he'd forgotten all about his partner. Doyle, though, didn't look as though the inattention had done him any harm. He was stretched out on his side, head propped in one hand while he gazed at them with his soft, sleepy eyes. Mike had assessed him before as fragile, looking at the thin build accentuated by skin-tight jeans, and clinging T-shirts. But the clothes had hidden a body that was every inch hard muscle, about as fragile, Mike realized, as a titanium rod. His skin glowed a soft gold in the lamplight, the light picking out the highlights of the hair arrowing down his chest, sliding over the proud, firm arch of the hard cock between his legs.

A casual caress over his hip returned Mike's attention to the man in his arms, but only as long as it took Bodie to kiss him and slide away, taking Mike's wrist to pull him back with him to the other end of the bed. Doyle was waiting for them, his eyes traveling over Mike's body in a way that made him flush from head to foot, abruptly becoming painfully self-conscious of his own nakedness. He wasn't used to this kind of frank appraisal, and he was suddenly beset with the insecure fear that he wouldn't pass muster.

Doyle reached up, pushing his hair back with a critical gaze at Mike's face, then glanced over his shoulder to Bodie. "You were right," Doyle said. "A work of art, he is." The hand drifted down, following the flush that had risen anew on Mike's skin, fingers trailing over chest and belly and groin, finally curving to grasp briefly at the hard, reddening length of Mike's cock. "Beautiful," he heard Doyle whisper to him, but the words barely registered, the part of Mike's brain that should have processed the compliment shutting down as the blood rushed elsewhere, filling the swelling cock that was being stroked gently by Ray's fingers.

Mike had to remember to breathe, his breath sighing out of him in a long, soft groan. Apparently Doyle liked that, for his hand shifted, stroking him harder, giving him a little more. His fingers were cool on Mike's heated skin, the touch electric on the throbbing length. Mike could feel his heart thud in his chest, could feel his own pulse beat against Doyle's hand. It was almost more than he could take, and it was with a mix of relief and disappointment that he felt the stroking fingers withdraw. And then Doyle's arms were around him, and Bodie was urging him forward from behind, rolling him on his side and into Doyle's embrace.

This was nothing like kissing Bodie. The dark-haired man was all banked heat, smoldering and dangerous. Ray was like the fire itself, burning whatever he touched, his mouth a hot furnace pressing against Mike's mouth, then moving to touch his cheeks, his jaw, his throat, trailing the fire in his wake. Behind him, Bodie had moved closer, fitting his body to Mike's, his thighs tucked up to cradle Mike's hips, the hard length of him sliding neatly along the crease of his buttocks, sending another jolt of shivering pleasure down Mike's body.

Bodie began to kiss the back of his neck, soft, warm, wet kisses, almost soothing compared to the burning touch of Doyle's lips. Doyle's mouth fastened on his again, and Mike reached out, blindly wrapping his arms around the other man, startled as his arms locked around the slim, hard body, surprised, after all, that there was so little of him to hold. Bodie was holding him now, his hands snaking around to stroke Mike's chest, to brush lightly over the straining cock, then move forward to give Ray the same treatment.

Ray shuddered in Mike's arms, his hips pushing forward until he was locked with Mike, his shaft pressing against Mike's belly, and Mike's own length caught in the delicious vise of their bodies. Mike froze, overwhelmed, every nerve screaming as he fought not to thrust into that tight heat, knowing that he was too close, that in a very few seconds he might not be able to hold back at all.

Mercifully, Doyle and Bodie recognized the sudden immobility for what it was, and they drew back, Doyle withdrawing from his arms, Bodie rolling over, taking Mike with him until he was laying back in the other's arms, Bodie petting his chest and thighs, soft, comforting pats that were somehow soothing rather than erotic. After a while, Mike felt the pounding in his body subside, enough that he could finally speak.

"Sorry," he gasped, and he felt Bodie's chuckle as a warm caress on his shoulder.

"Well, it's two against one, isn't it?" he said, kissing Mike's neck, nuzzling softly at his hair. "Unfair odds, that." He sat up, pulling Mike with him, spreading his legs to settle Mike between them, drawing him back against his chest. Mike closed his eyes, lying back in the embrace, enjoying the feeling of being cradled in the other man's arms. The knife-edge of desire had lessened, enough that he could take the renewed caresses, that even the soft brush of Bodie's hand over his shaft evoked only a brief, mind-blowing throb of need, jacking the pressure up, but not so much that it was unbearable.

Then Doyle appeared in front of him, kneeling down beside him to run his hands over Mike's thighs. He leaned forward, kissing Mike briefly, then gently pulled Mike's thighs apart, sidling over to kneel between them. Mike gulped, shivering as Doyle's fingers trailed over the sensitive skin on the inside of his thighs, then groaned as he softly cupped Mike's balls from below, lifting the cool sacs with exquisite care, his hot fingers stroking over the taut skin until Mike was gasping for breath, his teeth clenched as he struggled not to scream. His head lolled back, finding the support of Bodie's shoulder, and the other man began to kiss him, shifting around until finally his mouth closed over Mike's, stealing the last of his breath.

Below, Doyle finally released him, but it hardly made any difference. He was as hard as he'd ever been in his life, his cock pulsing maddeningly between his legs. Doyle's hands slid over his thighs again, and now he was lifting his legs, hooking them over Bodie's raised knees. He was sprawled unashamedly against Bodie's body, legs lifted and parted, his arms wound loosely around Bodie's neck, stretching his body up, offering himself blindly to whatever they wanted. Bodie's arms tightened around him, holding him, and Mike finally accepted the implicit promise, letting his body melt into the embrace.

"That's it," Doyle murmured from somewhere in the vicinity of Mike's left knee, and Mike shivered as his lips pressed briefly to his skin. Bodie was kissing him again, his mouth locked to Mike's, distracting him from the things that Doyle was doing to him. There were more kisses now, moving slowly up the inside of his thigh, then across his hip to the other side. Then a hot, wet mouth was pressed to his balls, kissing one, then the other. Mike whimpered into Bodie's mouth, a helpless, moaning keen that was almost childlike. Bodie stroked his belly comfortingly, his kisses gentle, reassuring.

Mike accepted the kisses gratefully, caught perfectly between the two of them, his mind and body held in a glorious, exquisite torture of sensation. The mouth on his balls moved again, drifting higher, the softly exhaled breath tickling the fine hairs around the base of his penis. Mike froze, his hands gripping the back of Bodie's neck, then he cried out into him as Doyle's lips slid over the head of his cock, taking him inside that heated, sucking mouth in one smooth stroke. His hips arched up, or tried to, but Doyle's hands were holding him, keeping him welded to the hard arch of Bodie's spread hips. Doyle sucked him once, then again, then, unbelievably, he was drawing back. Mike made a nearly frantic sound, knowing he must sound desperate, but not caring.

"Shh," Doyle whispered into his stomach. "Almost there. I promise." He moved away again, leaving Mike hanging there, nearly insane from desire, thinking of nothing but the painful hunger between his legs. And then the hands were back, and a slick, slippery finger was gently exploring between his legs, trailing downward, across the smooth, sensitive skin under his balls, and then further.

Mike froze, not daring to believe that Doyle was actually going to do it, that he'd actually touch him where his hands seemed to be leading, and then the soft, slick finger did just that, brushing lightly over the suddenly throbbing tightness between Mike's buttocks. Doyle rubbed over him, slicking down the tight little bundle of nerves, and Mike shuddered in Bodie's embrace, a fleeting embarrassment quickly subsumed in the incredible pleasure of the touch. The finger continued to massage, pressing down to send electric jolts of sensation through Mike's body, and he found himself wondering, and hoping, what would happen if Doyle would push a little harder, how it would feel to have that hard, probing finger slip inside him. And then he found out.

Bodie's hand moved to cup his jaw as he cried out, thumb stroking over his cheek, caressing his hair back while he calmed him with kisses. But Mike scarcely noticed, every scrap of his attention focused on the incredible sensation of Doyle's finger going up his ass. He felt his muscles spasm around the rigid digit, trying reflexively to push it out at the same time as he drew it in. Then Doyle's palm was pressed against him, and he realized that the whole finger was now seated firmly inside him. It was all he could do not to come on the spot.

"You all right?" Bodie whispered to him, into him, and Mike managed a shaky, breathless nod.

"Oh, yeah," he breathed back, and heard Doyle give a soft, rich chuckle. He slid his hand back a little, then pushed in again, and Mike shivered all over, feeling goosepimples flood his skin. "Yes . . ." he whispered, scarcely aware that he'd said it out loud. Doyle obliged him with a longer, deeper stroke, leaving Mike trembling in Bodie's arms. He turned his head, blindly seeking Bodie's mouth, and lost himself in the other man's kiss, opening his mouth helplessly as Doyle's finger moved in and out. He was so close, the hot friction of that finger bringing him right to the edge, the soft caresses of Bodie's arms and the wet heat of his mouth keeping him there. And then Doyle's mouth was on him again, sliding him into hot, wet, tightness, sucking him hard. And it wasn't enough. Mike was about to come, was a second away, and it wasn't enough.

"Stop," he gasped, tearing his mouth from Bodie's, unwinding one arm from his neck to reach down and push Doyle's head away. "Please." He groaned as Doyle slid his finger away, too, though he hadn't intended that. "Please," he said, reaching his hand to Doyle's flushed, puzzled face, tracing the fine line of his cheek. "That was good," he said when he could speak, nearly panting the words, and then let his hand drop, fingers barely brushing the tip of his penis. "That would be better."

Doyle's breath caught, and his cock leapt up. "You sure?" he asked, and Mike felt Bodie laugh behind him, his hands caressing Mike's stomach.

"Oh, I think he's sure." Bodie's hand spread against his face, turning him to be kissed again. Mike closed his eyes, losing himself again, until Bodie drew back, planting tender, soft kisses on his face. He put his arms around him, holding him. "We'll take care of you, Mikey. That's a promise." He grinned against him, and kissed the tip of his nose. "But you're going to have to move, love, for us to do this properly."

A minute ago, nothing could have persuaded Mike to move from the warm haven of Bodie's arms. But the rich promise in Bodie's words proved to be enough after all. He slid away from him carefully, kneeling up on the bed, wondering where they wanted him, but only for a moment.

"Here." Doyle took him in his arms, kissing him, then urged him to lie down on his side, Doyle lying down to face him, his mouth curved in a smile. Bodie shifted behind him, and Mike shivered as his palm stroked lovingly over his ass, massaging gently before his hand slipped down, pushing Mike's leg forward to lie over the curve of Doyle's hip. Doyle pulled him closer, taking Mike in his arms, his knee slipping between Mike's parted thighs to stroke him. Mike allowed himself to be positioned, surrendering his body to Bodie's hands. It was almost as erotic a thrill as the contact of their bodies, the feeling of giving himself over to them, trusting them absolutely with his pleasure. Just as well. He was so charged now, so close, that if he'd so much as touched himself, it would have been all over. And Doyle was murmuring softly to him, encouraging him, using his mouth and hands and lips to set him quietly ablaze, his skin fired with sensation, his body melting into Doyle's arms, and opening to Bodie's softly probing hands. He wasn't sure how or when it had been decided that Bodie would be the one to take him, but right now he didn't care. All he wanted was to have that incredible bone-melting friction back, and he didn't much care where it came from.

He gasped as Bodie's fingers probed him, then entered him again. Mike quivered helplessly against Doyle's supporting body, moaning into his mouth, and felt Bodie stroke his back with his free hand, soothing him like someone might soothe a frightened animal. Mike felt nearly frantic now, only barely aware of the fingers carefully stretching him, opening him until he thought he might scream from frustration. It still wasn't enough, wouldn't be enough, he thought, until he felt that cock inside him.

When Bodie finally entered him, he froze in Doyle's arms, every nerve in his body abruptly short-circuiting in the hot sizzle of desire. He felt it race along his limbs, a hot flood of blood and heat rushing outward, turning his muscles to jelly. He heard Doyle's voice in his ear, quietly telling him to breathe, and he obeyed blindly, sucking in gulps of air while Bodie waited, his shaft buried only a maddening fraction inside Mike's body. He shifted forward, and it happened all over again, the mind-blowing wave of sensation reducing Mike to whimpering incoherence. He found Doyle's mouth, fastening on it with fierce passion, kissing him desperately to keep himself sane until Bodie was finished, until he'd pushed forward, inch by agonizing inch, and finally buried himself completely in Mike's body. And when he started to thrust, Mike thought he was going to die.

His breath stopped, his vision flooding crimson, Ray Doyle's flushed face dissolving before his wide-open eyes. The liquid, rasping heat of Bodie's cock filled him up, a long, delicious friction that seemed to go on forever. He hadn't realized that he'd cried out until he felt the raw air in his throat, and only realized that he'd come with the first thrust when he felt the hot liquid spilling over his thighs. Bodie stroked into him again, and Mike gave a helpless, strangled whimper, his hips shaking uncontrollably as his cock jerked, pulsing again over his own leg. Then Bodie groaned, a deep, hoarse sound, and Mike nearly came all over again as he felt him climax inside him.

They clung together, gasping in breathless unison, shivering and panting until finally Bodie gathered himself enough to pull away. Mike protested weakly, but he was too far gone to fight him. He leaned forward into Doyle's arms, searching for his mouth, and only then realized that not all of the wetness covering their bodies had come from him. He nudged with a questing knee, and Doyle's breath caught, his mouth curving in an almost apologetic smile. "You looked grand, you did," he told him softly. "Couldn't hold back, could I, not seeing you both coming right there in front of me. It was beautiful."

"Told you," Bodie said sleepily from behind Mike, and drew his hand over Mike's side. He tugged gently, urging Mike onto his back, and propped his head on his hand, looking down at him with an oddly tender expression. "Didn't I tell you, Ray?"

"You did." Doyle shifted himself up on the other side, reaching over to stroke Bodie's chest idly. "He's a work of art, like you said."

Mike felt the flush rise in his face. "I look like a guy who spent the last hour sweating like a pig," he said.

"But it's a very nice pig," Bodie said, and put up a hand to trace the edge of Mike's cheek. "Don't knock yourself, son," he said. "Doyle and me don't go around throwing compliments away. He says you're beautiful, you're beautiful."

But Mike barely heard him. He was drifting away, the tiredness of the long day finally catching up to him, the soft lassitude of the aftermath of orgasm weighing down his limbs, pulling his eyes shut. "Thanks," he managed to mumble, and heard Doyle laugh softly, and felt a hand push through his sweat-damp hair. A warm body settled close to him, arms wrapping around him, and soft lips kissed his temple, then his mouth. He heard voices over him, the deep rumble of laughter in the chest behind him, but he was too far gone to pay any more attention. A moment later, he was fast asleep.

\-----

The phone woke them at six. Doyle recovered first, reaching for the receiver, dislodging Mike's sleepy embrace. He picked up, and listened for maybe a minute, then hung up without a word and rolled over to poke Bodie's shoulder. "That was our travel agent, sunshine," he said. "Says he's got our flight booked."

Bodie peeled a sleepy eye open. "What, now?" He still had his arms around Mike, a peaceful, heavy embrace that Mike was loathe to lose. But lose it he did, as Bodie carefully extricated himself from the tangle of bodies and bedclothes, abandoning Mike with a soft, apologetic kiss. "Duty calls, love," he said, and the regret in his voice was palpably genuine. On the other side, Doyle muttered something that sounded vaguely obscene, then leaned over abruptly to follow Bodie's kiss with one of his own.

"Sorry," he said, and reached up to run a hand through Mike's hair, feathering the soft strands in his fingers. "Wasn't supposed to end like this, was it?"

"Hey." Mike caught the caressing hand with his own, brought Doyle's palm to his mouth for a soft, sleepy kiss. "It's okay. I understand."

Behind him, Bodie shifted, and Mike turned to find him looking at him with an odd expression. "Yeah," he said, and put his hand softly on Mike's cheek. He caressed his face, and now his voice was quiet, almost sad. "Yeah, I think you do, sunshine." He stroked his cheek again, leaned into kiss him, whispering something that Mike couldn't quite make out as his lips brushed over his temple. He might have been saying, "More's the pity." Then Bodie stood up slowly, reluctantly heading for the closet where their bags were kept, moving more quickly with every step as he and Doyle fell into what looked like a long-familiar routine.

Mike propped himself on his elbows, watching, knowing he should probably get up, probably get dressed, and leave. But instead he stayed where he was, unwilling to dispel this early-morning lassitude. His whole body was still singing softly with the reminders of the night before, even the little aches and pains no more than a gentle trigger to the delightful reminiscence. He wanted to stay here as long as possible, watching them, soaking up every moment of memory, to hold and savor.

Presently, Bodie came over to kiss him again, his half-packed bag dangling from his hand. He tossed it next to Mike, and sat down, running a hand over his bared thigh. "You all right?" he asked, and Mike nodded.

"Never better," he said with a grin, and got an answering smile from Doyle.

"Good," he said. A set of car keys landed on the bed next to Mike. "Then you won't mind driving us to the airport."

\-----

Epilogue

"What are you smiling about?" Lennie Briscoe shifted lower in his seat, staring grumpily out the window as they headed over the Brooklyn Bridge. Headed away from Manhattan. Normally, Mike felt the same way as his partner obviously did about seeing the familiar skyline recede behind him, but there was something about taking this route again, even after all these years. How many had it been? Ten? Fifteen, more like it. And he still remembered that early morning drive over the bridge, summer haze hovering over the river, all the car's windows open to let the cool air swirl in. And Bodie and Doyle, sniping at each other, complaining, grumbling, and arguing about who was going to get the window seat. He felt his mouth curve into another smile.

"Nothing," he said at last to Lennie. "Just a memory, that's all."

THE END

**Author's Note:**

> This story takes place in the late 70s, some years, obviously, before the events of the first season of Law &amp; Order, and during the time frame of The Professionals. It's not associated with any particular episode of The Professionals, but does refer to events related during the Law &amp; Order episode "Wager."
> 
> **Thanks** to Deb, Lianne, and Karen, for patient beta-reading and for aiding a humble Gal Raised In The South in her attempt to write dialogue for New Yorkers and other foreigners. :) Any remaining mistakes are mine alone.


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